


You Won't Remember This

by UchiHime



Series: Icarus [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Cannot be Read as a Standalone, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:03:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UchiHime/pseuds/UchiHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hydra gives their Asset a mission unlike any he’d been given before.</p><blockquote>
  <p>    <em>He was let into a room that was filled to overflowing with a scent that nearly brought him to his knees. A scent that awoken things in him he hadn’t felt for a very long time. Urges. The urge to mount and claim and breed, but also the urge to comfort and shelter and protect.</em><br/>  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	You Won't Remember This

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is super short because there were originally written as flashbacks within the story "Wild Winds Around You." I decided the flashbacks were too out of place so I cut them. I always intended to write a "prequel" about Sam and Bucky in Hydra's custody, but I wanted to do it from Sam's POV. I have yet to write anything from Sam's POV that I felt did justice to his character, so I decided to stick with Bucky's POV. And since I already had these scenes written, I figure why give myself a bigger headache trying to develop something different when these work perfectly.
> 
> This story is just Bucky and Sam's first meeting within Hydra. I _want_ to write about the fifteen months they spent "playing house" but I'm probably not going to do it. That would be at least 10k more words and there's not enough coffee and Aleve in the world to get me through it.

****   


His only mission parameters had been not to kill and to trust his instincts. He didn’t understand. He was a weapon. Killing was his sole purpose. There’d never been a mission where he’d been told not to kill. Actually, he couldn’t recall there ever being _any_ missions prior to this one, except that he knew there had been many and he’d killed on all of them. Remembering the exact “who, what, when, where” details wasn’t as important as remembering that he’d succeeded.

If the ‘don’t kill’ order had been the only thing different, he probably wouldn’t have thought about it any longer. But it was just one of many things that he felt was wrong, but didn’t have the memories necessary to explain why they were wrong. He’d been waiting to be handed something, a file or a picture or something to tell him who his target was. Because there had to be a target. There was always a target. But he was given no such information. It didn’t make sense. Weapons had to be pointed in the right direction in order to minimized collateral damage. A man can’t just randomly fire a gun and expect the bullet to hit who they wanted, yet that was what they were doing with him.

And information wasn’t the only thing he wasn’t being given. They gave him no weapons, no combat gear, no goggles or muzzle. They always put his muzzle on before letting him out. And that was something else he didn’t know how he knew. He felt practically naked when they led him out of the room. They didn’t lead him outside. They didn’t put him in a car and take him to where he needed to be. They led him down the hall to another room in the same building, and that fired yet another warning in his brain that screamed wrong! His targets were never already in custody. He was a sniper, an assassin, not an interrogator. Captured targets had no worth to him.

He didn’t know it at the time, but all of these little inconsistencies were adding up to something. Something that was breaking through the hastily done memory wipe that took place before his last long sleep. Given a couple of more hours, he would be able to recall exactly why all the wrong things were wrong.

But he wasn’t given a couple more hours. He was let into a room that was filled to overflowing with a scent that nearly brought him to his knees. A scent that awoken things in him he hadn’t felt for a very long time. Urges. The urge to mount and claim and breed, but also the urge to comfort and shelter and protect.

His first instinct was to run. The moment he stepped inside the room, he turned around and tried to walk back out. Except he couldn’t. The door had been sealed behind him, and he knew without trying that force wouldn’t be enough to break through the sliding steel door. He didn’t understand! Why would they lock him in here? What purpose did it serve?

He turned back around, finally given in to the screaming voice in his mind demanding he find the source of that amazing smell. At first he didn’t recognize the creature on the bed as a man. In his experience, men did not have large feathered wings that whipped through the air around them as they struggled against chains. But his memory gave him limited information on men. He knew how to kill one, and he knew they came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Who said they couldn’t have wings? Fear was an acrid scent beneath the alluring sweetness he’d first smelled. The winged man’s dark eyes glared at him from beneath half closed lids.

He took a step forward, and the man on the bed pulled harder on his chains. A rusty smell joined the scents in the room, very faint but present enough to make it clear that the man on the bed was bleeding. His eyes zeroed in on the metal cuffs around the man’s wrist, the skin beneath them had been rubbed raw by his attempts at escape.

He crossed the room quickly, the man tried to kick him with a wildly flailing leg, but that was easily dodged. “Don’t touch me!” The man said. He ignored the words. The metal of the chains felt incredibly light in his hands, he wrapped his fingers around it and pulled. It gave easily under the force and sent broken links flying through the air.

The fist swung at him by the newly freed man was just as easily dodged as his kick. The man pressed himself against the wall, his wings wrapping around him to hide his nude form from sight. Two hands, one metal and one flesh, raised placating. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, though the words felt wrong on his tongue. He carefully walked backwards away from the man on the bed, until he saw the man slowly begin to relax. Everything in him hated moving away from the delicious scent, but he’d long ago become accustomed to disregarding his own desires.

He lowered himself to the floor on the other side of the room from the winged man. He managed to ignore the bulge in his pants and the increasingly heady scent in the air, until the moaning started. He didn’t realized he’d moved back across the room until he found himself ducking out of the way of a flapping wing.

“Don’t touch me,” the winged man said again.

“You need help,” he said. “I just want to help you." His brain finally supplied him with the word for what was going on. Heat. This man was in heat. The fertility cycle of omegas. There was another word for the thing building up inside himself. Frenzy. He was edging close to a mating frenzy. The animalistic state alphas fell into.

Frenzies were mindless and messy and more a burden than anything. Mistakes were made in frenzies. He was a man (was he a man or a weapon?) who could not afford the making of mistakes. He could not afford to lose control of himself. He could not afford a frenzy. With that thought, he stamped down the growing state inside of him. He could not afford the consequences of a frenzy, so he simply would not go into frenzy. Not right now at least.

“Tell me how I can help you?” He prompted the winged man, and waited patiently for his orders.

** … **

He felt content. Was that the word? Calm and satisfied and almost relaxed? He hadn’t felt this way in a very long time, and his current state of being was undoubtedly due to the man in his arms. Sam was a blanket of warmth on him, tucked close to his side with his head on his chest. Sam’s wings were fanned out over the both of them, and they were so soft beneath his flesh fingers, he couldn’t stop himself from petting them.

He was… groggy? More asleep than awake. Lethargic! That was the word for it. Something else he hadn’t felt in a very long time. But lethargy was common after marathon rounds of sex. At least he thought it was. He couldn’t recall ever having sex before Sam.

Sam had passed out as soon as the last tendrils of Heat had left him. They were filthy with sweat and semen and other bodily fluids. He carefully tilted Sam’s head to the side to get a better look at the spot where neck met shoulder. It was strange having a person’s head in his hands without the intention of snapping their neck. But he would never snap Sam’s neck. He would never hurt Sam at all. Quite the contrary, actually. His promise to protect Sam for as long as they both shall live was displayed clearly on Sam’s neck in the form of blood-crusted teeth marks.

That was his mark on Sam. The sign that this man was his forever and ever the end. The matching mark on his own neck that said he was just as much Sam’s, had already healed without a trace, but that didn’t stop him from knowing it was there. He could feel it in his mind even without the evidence on his skin. He was tied to Sam forever. He shifted on the bed, being careful not to wake his… mate as he wrapped the man more securely in his arms. He yawned and looked around the room. He hadn’t wanted to sleep yet, because someone needed to be awake and on watch, but the lethargy really was getting too much for him. It wouldn’t hurt anyone if he dozed just a bit, would it?

He was sure he’d only closed his eyes for a second, but his next moment of awareness consisted of being grabbed by two men and pull one way, while two more men grabbed Sam and pulled him the other way. He didn’t think, only acted. In a span of only seconds, the two men who had grabbed him were both dead. The two men holding Sam were soon to follow, except he’d missed the fifth man who’d come into the room. Whatever they injected into the back of his neck worked instantly. One second he was trying to rip a man’s arm off for daring to touch his mate, the next he was on his knees, staring up at Sam through eyes that were going dark around the edges.

Sam hadn’t been his for even two days, and he’d already failed him.

** … **

He woke up in his chair, but that did not bring its usual comfort. His chair was a promise that he would soon be able to rest. His chair was a promise that he would soon forget. Forget all the things that didn’t add up and why it mattered. Forget all the disjointed images in his mind that he could not fathom into a clear picture. Forget the questions with not answers and the answers to the questions he didn’t want to ask. Forget Sam.

He struggled against the bindings on his arms. He did not want to forget. He did not want to forget how soft Sam’s wings were. He did not want to forget the warmth of a sleeping body pressed closed to his. He did not want to forget _content_ and _lethargic_ and _mine._

There were guns pointed towards him and words being spoken in tones sharper than knives. He was restrained and a bit was being forced between his teeth. And he was supposed to be calm. He was supposed to accept forgetting as a step towards being able to rest. But he did not want to rest. He wanted Sam.

There was the familiar sound of his chair being turned on and he struggled harder, desperate to get away to get back to Sam. But they did not care what he wanted. Because he was not supposed to have wants. He was supposed to unquestioningly follow orders. The concept of freewill was something they erased from him first. But it was something they’d unknowingly given back to him when they’d given him Sam.

He could not break free no matter how hard his struggled. A desperate sound he hadn’t known himself capable of making escaped his throat as every fiber of his being called out for Sam. He heard the echo of the sound in the back of his mind, the part of his mind that he now shared with his mate. Sam was calling to him just as desperately as he was calling to Sam.

Shadows edged at the corner of his vision and his brain tossed out the word _frenzy_. He was about to fall into a frenzy, but not the same kind of frenzy Sam’s presence had brought forth in him. That had been a mating frenzy, it was filled with a wild-abandon but wasn’t inherently dangerous. But this was a rage frenzy. This was a rip the world apart at its seams frenzy.

The bonds on his left arm gave way. Everything that happened after that were just flashes of anger and destruction; him rampaging through the room, fighting his way towards the door and down the halls, and not stopping until the person in his arms did not try to fight free, they melted against him and clung to him and filled his nose with the scents of _omega_ and _mate_ and **_mine._**

 


End file.
